Springfield daily republic. [volume] (Springfield, O. [Ohio]) 1887-1888, 1887-07-16

cnovies or thread IKE riIi OF reddisL
liquid.
Their neighbOrs in the cars fuss at
them, and they fuss back Children
scream, women screech and men shout.
Inc racket made by the car wheels rum
bling over the rails and the changing Of
the bells rung al the stations are supple
mented by the lively songs of gang Of
rowdies perched on the roof to which
may be joined the discordant strains from
hunting horns, wound by crew of boat
men, who are also bent on having good
time
All at once the train comes TO a full
stop, and our friends have reached the
end Of their journey.
What! already! Why. We didn't see
anything"
The exit from the cars is accompanied
oy the same pushing and confusion. One
oil the baskets is minus its cover and an
other has lost its handle. All rush for
the omnibuses. Father hoists UP mother
Who tugs her youngsters behind her as
well as she can. Pet corns are merci.
Iessly trodden upon and skirts are torn
into shreds. But what does that natter
4 la guerre, CONNIE a Ia guerre. One
doesn't have fun every day.
At last, they are in the omnibus, not
Jumbled together rs in the cars, but
packed i'll like herrings. The hunting
horn again sounds its ear splitting notes.
the songs begin anew, followed by vigor-
ous humping with walking sticks on the
roof and yells Of wild laughing
How delightful the country is!
Dust more dust! always Dust tree
here and there. Meadows with cows,
watched bya ragged maiden, then other
trees. other meadows, now and then q
muddy brook and other cows tended BY
other badly dressed girls.
The sun darts his rays straight down,
our friends wipe their foreheads, they
sweat, they sigh.
Oh how delightful the country is,
Now comes an ascent. The jaded ami
mails can no longer pull, they stop. The
passengers all get down. Some, the most
nimble ones. push the stalled vehicle from
behind, while the others drag themselves
slowly along, blowing like pair Of bel
lows in blacksmith shop
AT last! here is the village. Fields OF
harley ami wheat, studded here and there
with few crooked apple trees Further
on may be seen confusion Of red, green
and yellow roofs. above which rises a
small pointed belfry, surmounted by
zinc weather cock. The horses Jingle
their bells, the driver cracks his whip.
and the villagers, in their Sunday attire,
rush To the windows, with that cross look
on their faces which people generally as
sumo when disturbed at home. The
notes of the cornet now sound deliriously,
while the songs grow more and more inco-
herent
After breathing spell at the inn facing
the public square, baskets are picked ND,
and each little group starts out across the
unknown country.
Some camp in the shade Of the nearest
trees. while others go to the rocks at the
river bank. They feast amid the croak-
ing of frogs, and are ANNOYED by the flies
and the spiders. which are SO indiscreet at
times rs to tumble down into their glasses
or settle upon their plates, while now and
then snake or viper throws their picnic
into an inglorious disorder.
When all have eaten to their hearts
content and drunk their fill, when their
faces are flushed rs if with congestion
they 60 for strcll through the clouds of
dust, unless with handkerchiefs spread
over their faces they lie AT full length Oh
gravelly bed Of dry leaves and twigs
until the storm, which has been brewing
all day, suddenly bursts forth in all its
fury.
Then, the devil take the hindmost. The
groups scatter, every one for himself, and
the baskets for all. They miss their way;
they lose each other; they call to each
other with all the accents of despair and
hnally with an extra headache, a lost coat
or earring, sometimes even missing
child, they meet again, God only knows
how, at the inn facing the public square,
just As the guard gives notice that il is
time TO depart. They get aboard amid the
same hubbub, and have the same quar-
rels and troubles as in the morning.
But then, the next day, won't they be
able TO say to the neighbors:
Great Scott! but didn't We have fnnr'
And then the neighbors are green with
envy until Sunday comes round, when
it will be their turn to make our friends
feel bad.-Alfred Bonsergent. Trans-
lated for Times -Democrap.